Gretchen is a Horrible Name
by PaiPerMeent
Summary: ""Richard Brook?" The woman across from me asks. Oh, it's her. My assistant. I look up from the paper I'm reading and stare at her, my mug half way to my lips." MorMor Oneshot. Reichenbach Spoilers.


_**A/N:** My contribution to the MorMor pairing. _

_**Word Count:** 1,100_

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><p>"Richard Brook?" The woman across from me asks. Oh, it's her. My assistant. I look up from the paper I'm reading and stare at her, my mug half way to my lips. She makes a move for my paper, but I jerk it back towards my chest, spilling the hot coffee on my suit jacket. With a grunt, I slam the mug on the table, lay the paper down, and grab a bunch of napkins from the dispenser. Luckily my suit is dark, the coffee won't stain.<p>

"I'm so sorry, Mr. Moran." She mumbles. She leans across the cleavage, or, the table. The table. She leans across the table, trying to clean the coffee from my clothes. "It's just you were mumbling, and I was curious..." She looks up from my chest and in to my face. When our eyes meet she bites her bottom lip and goes back to sit where she was before. She likes me, apparently. She isn't too bad on the eyes. She would be better if she'd chop of her damn ass-length hair and change who she is entirely. But her face is similar to his. And that's good. That's why I hired her as my secretary.

"It's alright," I sigh, wiping off the last of the liquid and tossing the sodding napkins on the table. "Don't worry about it Gretchen." Horrid name. Gretchen. That's not the name you should have. Your name is all wrong. Just go change it. Be Jane. Or Jill. Or Janette. Who even cares? Just don't be Gretchen.

"Are you sure?" She asks. Then she does take the paper from the table, trying to be sneaky. Stupid. Why would you try to get the newspaper without my noticing? Pointless. I want to yank it back and toss it across the room. You shouldn't be reading about him. You shouldn't.

"Positive. We'll just have to get it dry-cleaned later." I give her a smile, and I know it looks real because I've practiced in the mirror more than I can count. Also, Gretchen visibly relaxes. Like she thinks I really don't care about my suit. It's just a bunch of fabric sewn in a pleasing way right? Wrong. It is me. My shell. My cover-up. Who would believe that a sniper works at a bank every day and wears name-brand suits to work everyday? Nobody.

"Ah, good. I'm relieved." She puts a hand to her heart in a gesture I'm all too familiar with. It was the same motion Jim used to use. When he was fucking me hard he would marvel at how fast his heart was beating. As he was usually riding me I would get a great view of everything that went on in his...Well, actually no. I would just get to see what he let me see. Which was everything crazy about him and nothing intellectual about him.

I must have my turned-on look on, because Gretchen's smile could cover continents. I hear something hit the floor, and I know it's the stiletto from her left foot. But I imagine the sound is coming from Jim testing a new pair of shoes. He wasn't joking when he said he'd make Irene in to a pair of shoes. Well, he didn't turn her in to shoes, as that couldn't be done since she's dead. He's got many human-leather shoes. It takes a while to tan the skin, but the shoes are beautiful on Jim. And they feel great on my skin whenever he steps... stepped. On me.

Her toes working on my clothed member only bring me back to reality for a moment. I clench my teeth, close my eyes, and imagine Jim as she settles in to a rhythm. His eyes, his soulless, empty, goddamn beautiful fucking eyes have got that look. Not any kind of emotion, but he'd have his eyebrows as low on his face as he could manage, and his lips were slightly parted, only his top teeth showing. It was never a particularly alluring face, but damn if I don't get more hard just thinking about what that face always led to. The floor, the sofa, the lay-low, the bed, the stove, the washer, the wall, the computer desk, my briefcase, the statue most tourists don't notice, the non-fiction area. It didn't matter where we were. When I saw that look it meant we were going to fuck. There. Then. Hard. Good.

Thinking about the various places, positions, and accessories we've used makes me come. Not hard. It's pretty mild compared with previous experiences. Still, I bite the inside of my cheek, close my eyes even tighter, and lift my chin with the force of it. She knows it's over, so she withdraws her damned foot and slides it back in to her fucking shoe. "Thanks." I manage. She blushes. She's new at this. My last assistant wouldn't have blushed. Not in a mostly empty restaurant, not even if she had just given me a blow-job under the table during a company meeting. And that has happened. Many times. I don't give a damn. Jim wouldn't have minded either. Although, if anyone was giving a blow-job it was usually me.

I'm starting to get turned on again when I see his lifeless body on the rooftop. I was the one who had to fetch it. He never called us back to say that all had gone as planned. So, after the sodding Sherlock's body was cleared off I went to see. And there he was. Laying there. Blood and brains everywhere. Did he even think of me before he shot himself? No. No, he didn't. He's never had emotions. He didn't even leave a fucking will. Of course, nobody knows he's dead. Except for me. He left me the whole fucking operation.

The. Whole. Fucking. Operation. At least Sherlock actually jumped. I don't have to worry about him trailing my ass and putting me away in jail for a long time. The prick.

"Mr. Moran?" Gretchen again. Fuck. Can't she just leave me alone? "It's time to head back to the office." She's standing up and offering her hand. I take it and she helps me up. My last assistant never did that. Maybe Gretchen is permanent. She gives me a tender look. No. She's not. I'll fire her soon. I've never been in to the romance side of sex.


End file.
